


Worth Noting

by samslostshoe



Series: Mingled Souls [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Post-it Notes, Sassy Cora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samslostshoe/pseuds/samslostshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after Derek and Stiles start dating, Derek begins to receive dumb notes from Stiles. </p><p>+++</p><p> <em>Derek is happy. It’s a truly alarming feeling. It’s not easily controllable, like anger. It’s sporadic and fluctuating and wonderful. And stupid.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth Noting

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-d by the ever-lovely Maizie, bless her non-existent ginger soul.  
> Title from this quote:  
> “There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.”  
> —William Shakespeare  
> Someone requested I write a sequel to _From Where You Are_ from Derek's point of, so here it is. Hope you enjoy.

  


Derek finds the note stuck on the hood of his Camaro. He thinks it’s just trash that’s blown onto the car, and his immediate instinct is to crumple it off and lob it into the street, but he halts at the sight of the familiar handwriting.

_Stiles._

He can’t help it; the corners of his mouth twitch up, though he tries to suppress it. He thinks back fondly to before Stiles had become such a part of his life, the night at the school when Stiles had first called him “sourwolf.” His response had been a terse, “Shut up.”

Now Stiles’ ridiculous nickname has made him smile. How times have changed.

He and Stiles started this—whatever it is—two months ago. At first it was a quiet, secret thing, just between them. But the pack, Scott’s pack, knew, and Scott told Allison who told Lydia who told Aiden who told Ethan: not so secret after all.

Scott had never been very good at lying to Melissa, so she found out after just a week. In time, when she and the Sheriff started their own quiet love affair after Scott’s father skipped town a second time, she let it slip to him one night. Derek had been surprised at how accepting the Sheriff was of the whole thing, given that his underage son was dating a known felon and former murder suspect. Not that Stiles’s age mattered to the relationship, as Derek was firmly against anything even remotely approaching sex until Stiles turned 18—only a few months away now. Of course, the Sheriff had no way of knowing that, but even so, his only reaction was calm, if begrudging, acceptance, and a stern warning against harming his son. Derek had promised that he wouldn’t. And he meant it.

Derek is happy. It’s a truly alarming feeling. It’s not easily controllable, like anger. It’s sporadic and fluctuating and wonderful. And stupid.

“Derek!” Scott calls from the passenger seat of the Camaro, “Come on, dude, stop being such a girl and get in!”

Isaac, in the back, rolls his eyes. “No, Derek, take your time. It’s not like the contract we’re about to negotiate impacts the safety of the pack or anything,” he gripes, acidically sarcastic.

“I’m coming,” Derek says gruffly, “shut up.” He slips the note in his back pocket.

Derek keeps the note on him on him all week.

This note is stuck to his pillow. Derek hears something crinkle under his head when he collapses on his bed in the loft, shoes kicked off and duffel thrown to the floor beside him. He pulls back, grasps the note, smiles. It smells like Stiles, and Derek holds it to his nose, trying to fill his head with the scent.

“I let him in,” Cora says from upstairs. “Hope that’s okay.”

Derek doesn’t answer her, instead sitting on the end of the bed to re-tie his shoes.

He drives without thinking, brain on autopilot, tracing the now-familiar path to Stiles’s house. He scales the side of the house, tapping on the Stiles’s illuminated window, heart swelling with the sight of Stiles bent over his computer, his fingers tapping the side of his head distractedly.

Stiles reacts immediately, throwing himself across the room to the window, tripping, picking himself up, and undoing the lock.

“Shut up,” he whines when Derek busts out laughing, “and get in here.”

Derek obliges, climbing into the room and grabbing the front of Stiles’s shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. “I missed you too,” he says.

Stiles smiles in remembrance.

“Very sweet,” he says, “but lame kiss, dude.”

Derek growls, and leans in for another. He presses their mouths together, hard, letting his tongue trace the seam of Stiles’s lips. Stiles opens up for him, and Derek’s tongue slides in, their mouths moving together seamlessly.

Stiles moans, and Derek thinks that the noise should be illegal. It’s like a drug, filling his head with nonsense and confusing his sense of self. It makes him crazy.

They end up on the bed, bodies pressed together needily. The heady scent of their mutual arousal permeates the air, so much so that Derek wonders if Stiles can smell it too, even with his limited human senses.

Stiles pulls back, and Derek looks up at him. Stiles’s hair is messy, his pupils dilated, his chest heaving, and Derek thinks he has never loved someone more. He should let Stiles know, he guesses.

Derek and Stiles say each other’s names simultaneously, and Derek laughs, saying obligingly, “You first.”

“Derek,” Stiles says breathily, placing a kiss on Derek’s mouth, on his neck, on his forehead, gently, “I want to...can we...I mean, if you want to?”

He leans in to kiss Derek again, and Derek smiles into the kiss, not really thinking. Stiles’s hands are scrabbling at his fly, and Derek takes a few seconds to realize what Stiles is really asking.

“No!” he growls, eyes flashing blue, and he’s on the other side of the room, halfway out the window, already starting to shift. He has to get out, he has to get away. As he launches himself out the window, he hears Stiles call his name, voice strangled and desperate.

Derek hits the ground running and doesn’t look back.

It’s stuck to the door of the Camaro the next morning, and Derek looks at it for a second, studying the words. They’re all in caps, as if Stiles is trying to emphasize just how sincere his regret is, and the words are squished together, like he wrote it in a hurry. The Os are a little smeared.

Derek plucks the card off the car, and proceeds to rip it into tiny little bits, throwing the pieces into the wind.

“What are you doing that for?” An irritated growl issued from behind him. Cora comes to stand beside him, clutching both hands around her coffee. Cora is always ready to analyze his feelings, not that she does it with any delicacy. Derek hates it.

“No reason,” Derek says tersely, holding open her door for her and slamming it shut behind her.

As he slides into the driver’s seat, she asks, “Is it Stiles?”

He tells her to shut up.

But it gets him thinking.

He’s not mad at Stiles, not really. Although Stiles knew that Derek was averse to moving their relationship in that direction while Stiles was still underage, he hadn’t really done anything wrong. Derek can’t blame him, because if he’s honest, he had wanted to just as much as Stiles had, by the smell of his arousal. But he has to be the responsible one. He has to be mature and he had to abstain. It’s just so hard to control himself around Stiles, the idiot makes him crazy. He couldn’t do it. But he can’t lose him.

Derek realizes somewhere along the line that he’s mostly just mad at himself.

As Derek drops Cora off at school, these are the thoughts clouding his head. He is so engrossed in himself that he doesn’t realize Stiles is approaching until he slides into Cora’s vacated seat, shutting the door behind him.

“Get out,” he snarls immediately, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

“No, we need to talk,” Stiles says firmly, throwing his backpack on the car floor. “You get my note?”

Derek doesn’t respond.

“Fine,” Stiles says, “I talk, you listen, Grumpy McSourwolf.”

Derek hesitates, then nods.

“Okay, first of all, I’m really, really sorry about the other night. That was really immature of me. I know you want to wait. I just, well, I really care about you, and if what I did puts whatever the hell this is in jeopardy, then ix-nay on the ex-say.”

Derek snorts in reluctant amusement.

“No seriously,” Stiles insists, “I’ll cut it out. I just don’t want to lose—,”

Derek cuts him off. “Stiles, I need to stop seeing you.”

The look Stiles gives him tears at Derek’s heart. His face is frozen in a mask of horror, and he looks like he’s in shock. But the worst is what he says.

“O-okay,” he says, voice shaking, and Derek feels like he’s coming apart at the seams.

When Stiles climbs out of his car, the only thing Derek wants to do is reach out and pull him back, cover him with kisses and hold him and whisper that he didn’t mean it, that it was a cruel joke and he never wants to lose Stiles, not ever. 

Instead, he starts the car and drives away, repressing whatever it is that’s trying to fight its way out of his eyes.

It’s been months since they’ve talked. Any important information Stiles has comes to Derek through Scott or Cora. He’s been a wolf half the time, just because it’s easier to repress emotions in wolf form; the only important things are _eat, sleep, kill._

He’s been managing.

The note just appears one day, stuck on top of a pile of research Cora brings home from school.

Derek whines when he first sees it, snarling, “Where did you get that?”

“Santa,” Cora snarks, turning to ascend the spiral staircase. “Where the hell do you think?” she calls, not turning around.

Stiles misses him. _Stiles_ misses _him._ Derek would have thought, with what he’d done, how he’d handled things, running scared when they hit a little bump in the smooth road (or as smooth as a relationship between an underage, ADHD teenager and an emotionally scarred, gruff werewolf could be), Stiles would have been glad to wash his hands of Derek. But no, he _misses_ him.

Derek’s eyes wander to the calendar tacked to the wall. It’s November 27. He takes that as a sign.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulls up outside of Stiles’s house. He takes a few seconds to breathe, to regulate his pulse, before scaling the side and tapping on Stiles’ window.

There’s no response.

He taps more insistently.

Still no response.

He’s deliberating breaking the window when it’s flung open, and Sheriff Stilinski’s incredulous face is about two inches from his own.

“What the hell—,” the Sheriff starts, before his face becomes solemn and dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice tight, lips pressing down into a thin line. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees, because it is, in fact, him, and most of his concentration is focused on not falling off the side of the house.

“What are you doing here?” the Sheriff asks angrily.

“Stiles,” Derek huffs out in explanation. “Can I come in?”

The Sheriff eyes him suspiciously, but steps back to allow him through the window. Derek thinks its mostly just because he doesn’t want to have to go to the trouble of dealing with Derek’s broken corpse when he inevitably falls.

“You really hurt him, you know,” the Sheriff says matter-of-factly. “He didn’t get out of bed for two days.”

“It hurt me just as much,” Derek says, eyes fixed on his own shoes. He looks up to see the Sheriff studying him, and he must seem just as sincere as he feels, because the Sheriff nods.

“I believe you.”

Derek breathes a sigh of relief.

As he leaves, the Sheriff says, “He’ll be home in an hour. I’m going out.”

Derek sits on Stiles bed, looking around the familiar room. On the desk, he spots about five stacks of different-colored sticky notes, and he gets an idea.

When Stiles arrives an hour later, Derek can hear him open the door, kick off his shoes, can hear his footsteps all the way to his bedroom door. “What the hell?” Stiles whispers, and Derek smiles.

Stiles swings the door wide, and Derek catches a glimpse of the number 18 made entirely out of sticky notes before his eyes snap to Stiles.

“I missed you too,” he says, simply, in response to Stiles’ shocked expression. He gestures to the door. “Happy birthday.”

Stiles drops his backpack, walks purposefully across the room to where Derek is sitting on his bed, and smacks Derek hard. Derek dumbfoundedly raises his hand to his cheek, mouth opening in surprise, but then Stiles bends down and crushes their lips together, and Derek simply wraps his arms around Stiles’ back and kisses him back. He tries to communicate all of his loneliness and regret and longing, everything he’s been feeling the past few months on his own. Stiles must catch some of it, because he moans against Derek’s lips and Derek opens his mouth, letting the vibration fill him up and warm him down to his very soul.

God, when did he get so sappy? It must be the idiot he’s kissing rubbing off on him.

But then the idiot he’s kissing really does rub off on him, and his mind’s wiped completely blank of all rational thought. He runs his hands up and down Stiles’s back, letting his fingers dance around the exposed skin at his hips. Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair, pulling his own head back to expose his neck. Derek nuzzles at it tentatively, mouthing gently at his adam’s apple.

“You,” Stiles says breathlessly, “you don’t need to...to hold back.”

“Yes,” Derek says tersely, mouthing the words on Stiles’s neck. “I do.”

“No,” Stiles says insistently, and he pulls at Derek’s hair, at his shirt. “Please. Please don’t.” He grabs Derek’s chin, kissing him hard, mouth hot and wet, his tongue dances at the corners of Derek’s lips.

Derek loses it. He growls, and he can feel the wolf rising up inside him. He grasps desperately at Stiles’ clothes, tugging so hard on his shirt that it tears up the left seam.

“It’s fine,” Stiles gasps, “It’s, ah,” his breath hitches when Derek mouths at his nipple, “fine,” his voice goes up an octave.

“Do you want to…?” Stiles asks the question with his lips against Derek’s hair.

Derek has never wanted anything more in his life.

Derek wakes to find Stiles propped up on one elbow, with a purple sticky note stuck to his own forehead, his free hand twirling a sharpie between his fingers. Derek reads the note and chuckles.

“You look like an idiot,” he says.

“Hey!” Stiles protests, frowning, “That’s no way to treat a guy who loves you.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Derek agrees, pulling Stiles to him for a long kiss, even though they both have morning breath, and sleep in their eyes. “Is that better?” he asks.

“Close, but no cookie,” Stiles murmurs.

Derek smiles and kisses him on the nose.

“I love you too, idiot.”

  



End file.
